The Island of Birds

by Austin Hackney

  Annabel glared at Josephine’s back and grabbed the iron handrail just in time to haul herself into the machine before the hatch squealed shut again.

  “There are straps on the wall,” she heard Josephine shout from outside the machine. “It’ll be a bumpy ride.”

  Annabel sat in the dark, alone. Josephine must have gone with Harry and Sibelius in the other machine. She probably wants to ask them about me. Annabel strapped herself in and rested her back against the hot iron plates of the walker’s interior. She dreaded having to introduce herself at the meeting. Josephine hadn’t exactly been antagonistic, but she’d hardly thrown her arms open in welcome. The others, she was sure, would hate her.

  A rumbling started up and the chamber vibrated. The stink of engine fumes thickened the already stifling air as the machine lurched into motion, rocking from side to side as it went. They need to add a gyroscopic balancing mechanism to this thing. Annabel couldn’t tell if the sickness in her belly was from the walker’s movement or her anxiety.

  She had never felt, even bullied by Lord Cranestoft, so powerless to guide her own destiny. What respect she’d enjoyed was hers by birthright. The prospect of earning it filled her with doubt. She imagined the anger and hatred that awaited her from these children, stolen from their homes and families, enslaved in secret sweatshops.

  I can’t do it, she thought. I don’t know how to face them. Her heart raced. She bit her tongue, fighting back the urge to escape the nightmarish machine and risk the wild beasts in the forest.

  Then, with a sudden jolt, the machine stopped, hissing as the chamber lowered toward the ground. This is it, she thought. Too late now.

  But the hatch didn’t open. She could hear voices outside the mechanical. There was a lot of movement. Annabel was sure the other walker was moving away. Then the voices died away, too. It seemed they had abandoned her. They can’t have forgotten about me, surely?

  Insult and relief struggled to win her over as she wondered what to do. It was hard to judge the passage of time sitting in the belly of the iron monster. It seemed to her like forever.

  Then the machine growled, its engines firing anew. The hydraulics hissed, and the mechanical lurched forward again. This time it went only a few strides before stopping. The chamber lowered and at last the hatch sprang open, clanking to the ground. Light flooded the stuffy space. Annabel reached to undo the straps.

  She swung to the ground and turned around.

  Hundreds of dirty faces watched her. She straightened up, not knowing where to look.

  To her left Josephine, Harry and Sibelius stood together, separated from the crowd. You’ve told them who I am already, she thought, heart hammering. She couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

  Visceral desperation wrenched her insides. She turned to Harry, and then Sibelius. The sky monkey loped over and took her hand. “Mademoiselle Annabel,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. Come.”

  Annabel grasped his hand as if it could save her from her fears. The children sat in a circle on the forest floor.

  Annabel’s mind raced, everything seeming to go by in a blur as Sibelius led her to a place where she could sit. They were in a clearing. Birds sang, fluttering among the leaves as her heart fluttered in her breast. None of the children spoke. Harry sat on one side of her and Sibelius on the other.

  Annabel clasped her hands together to stop them shaking. There are so many children here. And these are only those who have escaped. There must be hundreds more still in chains.

  Behind the children, there were a dozen mechanicals. There were crates loaded with weapons. They really are going to attack.

  Josephine stood up and spoke.

  “This is Princess Annabel. From the palace. I’ll let her tell her piece.” And she sat down again.

  Annabel stood. She held tight to the tattered fabric of her dress, trying to swallow but finding she had no saliva. “I am… well, you know who I am,” she said. “Sorry… for everything that has happened to you. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. Tomorrow is my birthday and the day that by right I will become queen. Once queen, I swear I will free everyone and work hard to build a safer, a more just…”

  I sound like an idiot. What do these children care about my promises?

  Her heart thumped. Her neck flushed. She stepped forward, releasing her dress, her fists clenched. “Listen,” she said. “I’m on your side. I want to help. I can help. I know the palace. I know how things are run; where we can get in and out; what the weak points are; where the armory is located, and the roosters. It’s true I didn’t know about the sweatshops, but almost nobody does. I am a scientosophist. I can help you improve your machines; make the walkers more stable, faster. That cannon over there could be much more powerful. A slight adjustment to the length of the launch chamber and it would bring down an ornithopter.” She paused. “Do you know they want to kill me, too? Their plan was to murder me so they could take over forever. They have to be stopped. I will do everything I can to help!”

  Annabel sat down again. She was trembling so hard she barely noticed the children clapping and stamping their feet. Harry’s arm slipped round her waist. Sibelius squeezed her hand tight. Josephine embraced her and kissed her on the cheek. She was smiling.

  “Welcome,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Annabel said. She felt light-headed.

  Then the rebel leader turned back to the children. “Now,” she said. “The meeting is open!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The meeting went on late. There was a lot to discuss and organize. As almost all the children could not speak communication was by signs and written notes.

  The decision-making process fascinated Annabel. Josephine divided the assembly into groups. Each group reached a consensus about questions raised. Their decisions were passed back to the whole group for a show of hands. The idea with the most votes went back to the groups, who came to a second consensus. The process repeated until every child had given their consent to a collective decision.

  “If all decisions were made this way, there’d be no more wars,” Annabel said to Sibelius.

  “If all decisions were made this way, there would be no need for rulers,” he replied without looking at her, puffing on his pipe.

  Annabel was about to reply when one of the few other children who could speak stood up. He was a tall, thin boy about Annabel’s age, with a gaunt face and gray eyes. “Just freein’ the other slaves won’t be enough, will it?” he said. “If we leave these lords and royals and whatnot to run the show, they’ll just do it again. We got to bring down the palace. We got to end it all forever! Destroy the palace! Bring down the Royal House!”

  His speech met with applause and grunts of approval.

  “Does anyone wish to add anything?” Josephine said.

  Annabel stood, nervous as she was.

  All eyes turned to her. Josephine nodded in her direction. “Annabel?” she said.

  No-one here used her proper title, which she accepted because she was not their princess, but it still pricked her pride. And that evoked shame. She ignored it.

  “I am concerned. Is it necessary to destroy the palace to free the slaves? I support you and wish to help. But… that is my house, my home.” She pointed toward the city. “This is still my island! The people love the palace and will be happy to have me as queen.”

  No-one spoke. Annabel scanned their eyes, silently pleading for someone, anyone, to give their vote to hers. Many looked away. Annabel spoke again. “Surely we have a right to rule ourselves?”

  The older children sniggered at that.

  “What?” she said. “What have I said?” No-one signed or asked for paper, or tried to answer her. She changed tack. “We are few compared to the military power of the palace. All this talk of storming buildings and raids is foolish. It should be a last resort. They may not have steam mechanicals – walkers
like you’ve built here – but they have a professional army. They can close the gates against us and we will be as flies against a citadel.”

  Many of the children nodded at that. Others looked to Josephine to see what she thought.

  “What alternative do you suggest?” Jo said.

  “I think we should play to our greatest strength. And that isn’t our skill with arms. That’s our knowledge.”

  “Go on,” Jo said.

  “Storming the palace from the outside is to pit our weakness against its strength. To charge the city walls will be heroic but suicidal. If a few of us enter the palace by stealth… we could lock doors, open gates, issue confusing orders, and generate chaos. If we can get word to the people of the city about what is happening we could get them on our side. They might join us. It could be a peaceful revolution.” The assembly was alive again with gestures and calls for paper and pencils.

  They agreed Annabel, Harry, and Sibelius should return to the city to spread confusion and dissent. In the meantime, the children would divide into battalions, each with an armed mechanical walker, and surround the palace. If the princess’s plan was successful, they would enter the city in peace. If it failed, they would be ready to attack.

  Supper had been prepared and eaten. Other tasks had been done while there was still enough light to work. Annabel had helped make adjustments to the mechanicals and showed the older children how to increase the power of their cannon. She hoped they would never have need or opportunity to test it.

  The camp, which moved position again before nightfall, was quiet: the younger children tucked up and sleeping; older ones busy with their own affairs, or taking their turn on the now constant watch. The threat of a pre-emptive attack by the Royal House was keenly felt, leaving everyone nervous. Annabel knew her presence added to the undercurrent of anxiety.

  The princess sat apart from the others, by the dying embers of a campfire. She was anxious about what she had agreed to do. For her, it was an uneasy alliance. She wasn’t sure she and the rebels had the same aim. Annabel sat on a log, her knees tucked up to her chin, staring into the dying flames.

  Josephine came and sat on the ground beside her.

  “How are you, Annabel?”

  Annabel shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “This is difficult for all of us,” Josephine said. “It isn’t the life I imagined, either. When I was a girl in Lundoon, I mean. I would never have imagined myself leading a rag-bag company of tongue-torn Groundlings against an alien regime.”

  “I’d never thought of myself as a representative of an alien regime.” Annabel managed a bitter smile.

  Josephine’s hand touched her arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “And I wanted to thank you. It can’t be easy. But I put these children first above your crown. You understand that?”

  “You don’t have to say it,” Annabel snapped before she had time to bite her tongue. “But you don’t understand this island, do you? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything you’ve suffered, but it wasn’t me did it to you, was it? And remember you are the aliens here, not me!”

  Josephine’s hand twitched, but it remained on her arm. The rebel leader’s voice shook. “We did not come here by choice. We have been badly treated. You can’t expect us to care about your personal ambition.”

  The words had were spoken quietly, but Josephine may as well have inscribed them on the blade of a knife and stabbed them into Annabel’s heart. She said nothing, her mind a black storm of emotion she didn’t understand.

  Josephine stood. “Thank you for your help with the machines,” she said. “I need to rest. You should, too. Try to sleep.”

  Annabel nodded, her throat too choked to say anything. With a swish of her tattered skirts, Josephine walked away into the dark.

  It was only when she tasted the blood on her tongue Annabel realized she had bitten her lip. She stood up and called to Josephine’s retreating back, “Josephine!” The rebel leader stopped and turned toward her. Annabel said, “You’re not doing any of this just for yourself are you?”

  The young woman smiled. Her eyes were bright with un-spilled tears. “Good night, Annabel,” she said. “Get some sleep.”

  Annabel rolled out her blanket. She was about to lie down when she saw Sibelius and Harry across the camp, close together by a different fire.

  Earlier in the evening, Annabel had listened as Sibelius had told stories to the younger children. She had laughed along with them as caught up in his comic tales as the youngest. But it wasn’t the laughter she revisited now: it was the hollow, empty pain she’d felt as she’d watched the children – not one of them afraid of his fearsome appearance or strange ways – hugging and kissing him good night.

  He sat now with his back against a tree, eyes half closed; his pipe in one hand, puffing smoke rings; his other hand stroking Harry’s head as she slept beside him, curled up like a child herself in her own blanket.

  Sibelius’s eyes snapped open. He looked straight at Annabel. She started. It was as if he knew she was watching him. He smiled, his gold tooth glittering in the fire glow. Annabel lifted her hand and waved. He raised his pipe in acknowledgement. He looked at the sleeping captain. Lifting his hand from her head, he paused as a parent might to be sure her child is sleeping. Then he got up and loped over to Annabel.

  He sat down beside her. “Bon soir, mademoiselle,” he said. “The smoke does not bother you?” he asked, showing his pipe.

  “Not outside.” The campfire embers crackled. An owl hooted. “You’re good friends, aren’t you?” Annabel said.

  Sibelius cocked his head.

  “You and Harry, I mean.”

  The sky monkey shrugged. “We have been through many adventures together. We have saved each other’s’ lives more than once.”

  Annabel nodded. “Yes, that would make you friends.” Then she said, feeling foolish the moment the words had escaped her lips, her cheeks burning as red as the embers, “What is it like? I think it must be beautiful… not to be alone.”

  “You do not have friends?”

  “I don’t know. There’s Katy, my maid. And Dr. Ravensberg, perhaps, but… no,” she said as she realized it for the first time. “No, I don’t. I don’t have any friends.”

  Sibelius blew a thick smudge of smoke from his simian nostrils. “It is a problem for kings,” he said. “I understand they have people to taste their food to be sure it is not poisoned. They are accompanied everywhere for their own safety. They are never sure who loves them and who seeks only to benefit from their power. It must be hard to live in an ivory tower. Even if a King’s blood spills as easily as a commoner’s, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  Sibelius shook his head. “I do not mock you, Votre Altesse Royale.”

  Annabel let out an angry grunt. “Don’t call me that anymore!” she said. “No one here calls me that, do they? And why should they? I am not your princess, am I?”

  Sibelius raised his eyebrows and a gentle, sad smile tickled the corner of his mouth. “You are lonely, Annabel,” he said. “But you are among friends.”

  “Since my father died, it’s as if my heart has become a hollow little prison. A hollow little prison with a sorry, starving little girl locked up inside. Locked up and forgotten. Like a porcelain doll in a pretty dress, but underneath, cracked and broken.”

  She was crying. Sibelius’s hairy arm closed around her shoulders. It was the first time she could remember being held. She turned her face to his chest and soaked his fur with muffled sobs. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, wiping her eyes. “It sounds so self-pitying, doesn’t it? And Josephine is so noble and good. I just feel… oh, why is it all about me again?” She made a stifled exclamation of frustration.

  “Are you sure you wish to be queen?” said Sibelius.

  “I wish to rule well. To make amends.”

&
nbsp; “Can you mend something with the same hammer used to break it?”

  But before she could answer a blaring siren shocked them to their feet. The camp buzzed with activity. Children were shouting, waking each other, running in all directions. Josephine shouted commands.

  “What is it?” Annabel said, breathless. Then she heard the unmistakable clatter of ornithopters streaking through the dark.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The rebel children had prepared for this. Walkers stood at the perimeter to repel roosters. The cannon, its barrel pointing skyward to the only gap in the canopy through which the ornithopters might gain sight of the camp, was loaded and primed. Arms had been distributed and positions taken along the natural embankment surrounding the camp.

  Annabel followed Sibelius as he loped over to wake Harry. The captain dragged herself free of her blanket, sitting up and looking about her.

  “We are under attack, mon amie,” Sibelius said.

  “No chance of breakfast, then.”

  Before Sibelius could answer, Josephine was with them. The first rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire blistered through the canopy. They dove for cover, landing hard on the ground. Leaves and stones exploded into the surrounding air. The rebel cannon boomed its riposte and the ground shook.

  “Go!” said Josephine. “Take the balloon and go. We can handle this. We are ready. And if I’m wrong, there’s nothing you can do to help us by staying here. Get to the palace and do what we said you’d do. It’s our only hope at this point. Once we’ve beaten them off here, we’ll do our part. We’ll join you. Now GO!”

  Annabel didn’t like taking orders, but she knew Josephine was right. Scuttling closer to the cover of the embankment, they huddled tight as the next round of fire blasted above them. “They can’t sustain a battle long,” said Josephine. “We have steam. They only have clockwork. All these craters are old mine workings. This island is practically made of coal.”